


Shipping

by heartlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartlocked/pseuds/heartlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead, and John receives his ashes. A sad-feels ficlet that is definitely not based on a pun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shipping

One day the box showed up on the kitchen table. Another day, another time, he might not have noticed it amid the microscopes and dirty plates. But there would be no such box if the table was still cluttered with Sherlock Holmes’ things; for the box contained the remnants of the man.

John could only presume Mycroft had left it there. He’d been a little surprised—thought for sure the ashes had been buried beneath the headstone. Apparently not. And apparently Mycroft thought he would like them, or, more likely, simply didn’t know what to do with them himself. At any rate, it was a sad little box with the funeral home’s basic information on the outside. John put it uneasily on the shelf and tried to forget.

As the months went by, however, he couldn’t stop thinking about the ashes. Sherlock would hate it on the shelf, cooped up next to the skull (one of the few possessions Mycroft’s men hadn’t taken care of) with nothing to do. _But he’s dead_ , John would tell himself. _He doesn’t feel anything ~~except for hellfire for leaving me you arse.~~_  Sherlock would disapprove of this sentiment, if anything.

John wasn’t Sherlock, though, and he needed some sentiment. His therapist (before he’d given up on her again—Sherlock was right, stupid woman) had kept talking about closure, and in some bizarre twist, John wanted to give it to Sherlock. He considered spreading the ashes through the city he had loved, but it didn’t seem right to split his remains up. Yet neither did he particularly want to bury Sherlock away forever. The remains remained on the shelf.

One Friday, John ended up with a short schedule. Carefully avoiding any thoughts on what exactly he was doing—just as he’d avoided thinking about what day it was—he grabbed the box and took a train to the coast. On another “whim” he walked into one of the small coastal shops and bought a toy wooden boat. It had cost too much, but it was about the right size. John walked down to the shore and stood there for several minutes, holding the ashes and the boat and not thinking about anything at all. A shriek from some children startled him from his reverie, and he knelt down stiffly _~~he should have brought the cane~~_. He poured the ashes into the boat and waded into the _bloody HELL was it cold_ water. John looked down at the boat he was cradling, and choked on a laugh (sob?). How ridiculously, abominably stupid. He could almost feel Sherlock’s contempt as he gently set the boat in the water.

“You never did like to stay in one place, Sher,” he said, with a twisted smile. “They say they know more about the moon than the ocean. I’m sure you’ll”—another choke—“deduce it all for them.” He let go of the small vessel, and watched as his (aching) leg went numb and the receding tide carried it out of sight. “May your ship sail forever, Sherlock Holmes.”


End file.
